


with gold in my eyes

by transcendencism



Series: death to bioware timeline [1]
Category: Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic (Video Game)
Genre: Abandonment Issues, Character Study, Childhood Trauma, Gen, Pre-Canon, Pre-Star Wars: The Old Republic, Young Theron Shan, barely, fear of failure, he is a CHILD in this fic /j, young adult actually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:34:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27623462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transcendencism/pseuds/transcendencism
Summary: The surgeon who installed the implant ran him through setting it up, its functions, how to use it, even gave him a user manual (that he hastily shoved into his back pocket) but Theron didn’t actually see it; he didn’t think to ask for a mirror. He tilts the glass, careful not to spill his drink, and inspects his new implant.Faced with a new opportunity, Theron reflects on his past.
Series: death to bioware timeline [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1979875
Comments: 5
Kudos: 16





	with gold in my eyes

**Author's Note:**

> a question that no one asked and i wanted to answer: "where'd theron get that implant?"
> 
> did not edit this do not care i wanted it to be done so everyone will suffer with me but HEY AT LEAST IT'S 1k WORDS FOR ONCE ive been writing so much short shit lately im sorry 😭

**6 ATC**

Implants aren’t required for application into the SIS, or even in higher positions; getting implants installed is only a matter of convenience. Communication, slicing, research, and most of what else an agent could need all packed into one little device hooked into your brain.

Theron wasn’t completely taken with the idea at first, but the recruiter won him over; he wasn’t a bad slicer, but there was room to improve, and according to her, an implant would be perfect to help him along. He’d chosen an unobtrusive model, not for the sake of vanity, but if it didn’t work out, he didn’t need to be stuck with an implant he didn’t have a use for. Still, the idea of having an implant wired into his brain wasn’t a comforting one.

It was done now, though. A new fixture upon his face that, if he so chose to, he could use at any time. Convenient.

He swipes his passcard into the slot by the door, and the door’s barely open by the time he’s slipping inside and dropping his bag onto the cracked tile floor. The apartment’s a tiny, cheap thing that he just managed to pay the rent for with odd jobs and short-lived careers in a variety of places in Coruscant’s lower levels; he lifts his head to routinely check the damp spot on the ceiling (a leak from upstairs that he doubts will ever get fixed) and, assuring himself it hasn’t grown any larger since he left, he blows out a breath of relief.

The apartment isn’t in a bad spot either. It’s close enough to surface level that daylight makes it down on bright days, and the air quality isn’t immediately dangerous. Overall, it was more than he could’ve hoped for when he was fresh out of his final foster home with only the allowances he’d saved to keep him afloat. He knew kids that got it worse.

Theron heads into the kitchen and scrounges through the cabinet for the small, nearly empty whiskey bottle. It’s the cheap kind, but Theron doesn’t drink it so much for enjoyment as he does to help himself sleep, and it succeeds in that task well enough. Though, he finds himself wishing for something of better quality; the new job might fix his financial problems. He pours the last drops of it into a stout glass and sets the now empty bottle aside. A quiet stillness passes over him when, as he reaches for the glass, he sees the metal soldered to his face in the reflection.

The surgeon who installed the implant ran him through setting it up, its functions, how to use it, even gave him a user manual (that he hastily shoved into his back pocket) but Theron didn’t actually _see_ it; he didn’t think to ask for a mirror. He tilts the glass, careful not to spill his drink, and inspects his new implant. The reflection in the glass is skewed and distorted, not a good substitute for a mirror. Drink forgotten, he turns back down the hallway to the bathroom. His hand roams the wall until he finds the lightswitch, and he squints his eyes as the flickering fluorescent bulb overhead stutters to life.

He turns his face to the dirty mirror; there framing his right brow is the new cybernetic implant. The skin around it is bruised and still inflamed, though he was told the swelling would subside. He leans in closer to the glass and experimentally furrows his brows, twitching at the pain around the implant. Focusing again on the appearance of the implant, he notes the two blinking lights that signal that its operating, the color not dissimilar from the fixture illuminating the bathroom. The metal is freshly polished and dark against his skin and free of any scratches; it looks nothing like the street jobs he often sees on the lower levels.

Theron’s gaze pulls away from the implant, and he stares unsteadily into his own dark brown eyes in the mirror. The implant itself might be shiny and new, but it looks out of place on Theron’s face; tired eyes that have more lines under than them than a nineteen year old ought to, and creases in his forehead and around his mouth from frowning. Considering the face it’s found itself on, the implant might as well have been done by a street doctor. He doesn’t look like the young, bright-eyed recruits he’d seen in the lobby; young, a bit reckless, full of hope and patriotism.

His eyes in the mirror harden, lips tight with equal parts frustration and grief. Theron grips the counter for balance and breaks his gaze away from his own eyes, unable to keep the stare. Getting a job with the SIS was a final desperate attempt to make something of himself, and he’d gotten it, but could he handle it? Pressure builds behind his eyes, and it’s only after a few drawn out moments that he realizes he’s crying. His chest heaves, and his fingers clench the marble counter tighter.

The pain from the implant spikes as his face crumbles, and the added ache of tears in his eyes only adds to it. That drink back in the kitchen is starting to sound pretty good right now, but he stays rooted to the spot. Theron breathes in deep through his nose, and it trembles on its way out of his mouth as he lets it go. Tears make his vision swim, and he reluctantly steals another glance at the mirror. His eyes are swollen and red, not unlike the skin around his implant.

He’d been in this same place, years ago now. The mirror in the ‘fresher on the cargo ship was cleaner and only made his reflection more vivid; his hair was cut close to his head save for the top, which was left long and stuck up this way and that, and the Padawan braid that laid over his shoulder. He didn’t have scissors, but he had the pocketknife Master Zho once gave him in-case he ever got into trouble.

Theron’s hand moves to where the braid once lay like a phantom limb.

His eyes move back to the implant. The small yellow lights blink back at him from the mirror.

Theron steps back from the mirror and flicks the light off.


End file.
